


One Hundred Roman Years

by orphan_account



Category: Night at the Museum (Movies)
Genre: M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:15:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24494872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It’s a waste of time, and yet he persists.
Relationships: Napoleon Bonaparte/Al Capone (Night at the Museum)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	One Hundred Roman Years

i. I’d like him better if he wasn’t so loud and prideful. He screeches over your voice just to be heard, as if a louder voice will make him more intimidating. The results produce the opposite effect. It only brings more attention to the fact that he is very, very short and very, very childlike.

ii. I don’t like him. He’s too serious. I can be serious, sure, but I consider myself a fun guy. I can take a joke, and I can make jokes at another man’s expense with ease. I enjoy what I do; a frown on my face doesn’t mean jack. His furiosity is as obstinate as his temperament. 

iii. Emphasis on _temper_.

iv. He yelled at me today. He yells at me all the time; hell, he yells at everyone all the time. I just don’t get it. I was trying to be nice. I’m certainly not your cookie-cutter gracious gentleman who holds the door for you and buys you bouquets, but I can be affable when I want to be. You should’ve seen the look on his face; it’s as if I was asking for his hand in marriage! He ended up scolding me for my “mockery” and “superficiality.”

v. I saw him in the botanical gardens. For an angry little man, he sure loves peace. 

vi. I wasn’t stalking him. I didn’t approach him, either. I just watched him for a quick second before leaving. That’s not stalking. I didn’t follow him in or anything. I was wandering around, is that a crime? 

viii. Maybe I misjudged him. I had previously stated that I can take a joke and implied that he cannot; I disapproved of his aforementioned _temper_. But I think I get it now. He’s absurdly small and he knows it. His self-consciousness overrides everything about him, it seems, and he feels like everyone is making fun of him. He desperately wants to be taken seriously; it must be tiring. I don’t think I’ve felt anything quite like that before. Call me narcissistic, but I’m a tall, suave, handsome, intimidating guy. That’s how I see myself, always have and always will. What it must be like to perceive yourself as nothing but an embarrassment or an object of ridicule is beyond my capacity of understanding. My heart goes out to the poor guy. 

ix. How is it that a person can get stuck in your head like a song? I’m not embarrassed to say that I think of him. He’s such a character. I can’t say I’d be so attentive (yet piqued) of Napoleon if he wasn’t foreign. There’s something about those types, a certain flare of sensationality and outlandishness that breaks apart from the typicality of things. Maybe that’s just a sappy way of saying that I like his accent.

x. Am I excusing my intrigue with the fact that he is French? 

xi. He doesn’t like me. That much is obvious. If he’d only give me a chance, he’d know. He’d know. I’ve been nothing but an affable gentleman lately and all he’s done is look at me as if I grew a second head. He always tells me to beat it. Or he yells at me. Or ridicules me. I just don’t get it. Don’t I deserve a chance? He hardly knows me. Am I really that bad?

xii. I asked around. He doesn’t have many friends (no surprise there) but the ones who do know him were willing to chat. I wasn’t upfront with my motive; I hit them with a few conversation starters, got them gloating about something or other, and then slyly mixed him into the stirring pot. 

xiii. He likes plants. Flowers, specifically. He likes things that remind him of France. I don’t blame him; it’s his home, after all. He also loves sweets. Considering his age, I understand why he’s so fond of silence. Weirdly enough, he keeps in touch with Amelia, and she occasionally acts as a living fountain of knowledge pertaining to all kinds of aircrafts (before the 1940s). So he likes planes. I can see why. I’m not sure what I am going to do with all this information, as insignificant as it might seem, but it means a lot to me. 

xiv. I think I’m making leeway. We nearly had a pleasant chat when we ran into each other at the botanical gardens today. I was walking out, he was walking in. He stopped and asked me what I was doing here and I simply responded that I like it there, that the flowers are pretty and it’s relatively quiet. I think he warmed up to me then and there.

xv. Things are looking up. A buddy of mine asked me why I was acting so chipper. I said I finally woke up on the right side of the bed for once. 

xvi. He was looking at me. I was sitting on a lounging couch near the information desk with my buddies. We were playing cards. The night guard likes to sit at that desk like a throne, flipping through papers and such, and Napoleon approached him. I saw him lean against the desk and speak quiet enough that my strained ears couldn’t decipher anything; however, any idiot off the street could tell that the exchange was important enough to warrant some type of low-brow confidentiality. Anyway, while they conversed, he kept on looking over at me. Sometimes he’d flat-out stare. Their secrecy is really none of my business. Hell, I’m Al Capone: Everything is my business.

xvii. I’m not stupid. I’m not. But I’m hopeful. I’m hopeful that he doesn’t see me as a complete waste of space, that we have things in common, that we would be really great friends. Why can’t he open his eyes? I just want… I want… 

xviii. What do I want?

xix. What am I hopeful for?

xx. His approval?

xxi. His pleasantries?

xxii. His friendship?

xxiii. It’s something more. It’s always been something more. 

xxiv. This museum is a dump. I hate it here. _He_ sees this museum as beautiful and high-class and wealthy. And though it may not seem like it, he loves it here. I think he sees this place as retirement from his crazy life as a general and emperor in the 1700s and 1800s. I know he does. I know him very well. He’d know how much I know him if he would just… 

xxv. We’re opposites. It wouldn’t work. We’re opposites. It wouldn’t work. We’re opposites. It wouldn’t work. It’d never work. 

xxvi. Why can’t it work?

xxvii. Am I really this bored? Obsessing over a man nearly twice my age? This place is a dump and I hate it here and I hate what it’s doing to me and I hate that I’m in love with someone who hates me.

xxviii.

xxix.

xxx.

xxxi.

xxxii.

xxxiii.

xxxiv. Why does he have to be like that?

xxxv.

xxxvi.

xxxvii.

xxxviii.

xxxix.

xl.

xli. What did I ever do to him?

xlii. I’ve never seen him hit on anyone. Amelia recounts that he went gaga over her and Larry’s “relationship” once, but that’s chalked up to a romantic nature. It’s an “Ah, young love” sort of thing. I think he only found it interesting. 

xliii. I don’t want our friendship to be like this, if you can even call it that. I want him to talk to me more. I want him to be comfortable. He’s not comfortable. He should be. He has nothing to be afraid of. Well, it’s not like he’s afraid of me, he’s just… apprehensive. Why must he be like that? Is it because I look like I walked straight out of a black-and-white movie? It’s more than that. It _has_ to be more than that.

xliv. I’m trying really hard.

xlv. I should stop but I don’t know what else to do. We both live here and he’s not going anywhere. This would be much easier if he liked me back. If he was friendly. Why doesn’t he like me back? Why is he so distant? 

xlvi. I’m subtly hitting on him. I’m hinting, I’m winking, I’m touching his arm. If he knew how I felt, how would he react? Maybe he feels the same way too but his pride clouds his true feelings, which are then transposed into anger. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t seem to like me. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe. 

xlvii. 

xlviii.

xlix.

l. Everything feels hopeless. I have other things to do, friends to make and acquaintances to speak with. I’m actually building a very comprehensive and plausible network throughout the museum. Everyone will know my name soon enough. Many of these exhibits were born so far in the past that they don’t have an inkling of who I am. They will. The lucky few will see the real me. My closest buddies, my compadres and allies.

li. He would be one of those people if he didn’t have a stick up his ass. He could’ve been.

lii. 

liii. That was mean, and not the funny kind of mean. That was rooted in a dark, prideful place. It’s fine if he doesn’t like me; not everyone has to. It’s just… frustrating that it has to be _him_. Why can’t it be someone else? Someone I don’t care for so much, someone who doesn’t live inside my head, someone who I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about? 

liv. Perhaps that’s _why_ I like him. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about me and that’s something new. When I say I’m an important guy, it’s a universally true statement. Every modern man and woman knows who I am. But to him, I’m just another low-life punk in this fantastical foreign world. 

lv. Out of my grasp. 

lvi. He’s out of my grasp. Years have passed and I haven’t told a soul about this. My burdens are my own to bear. Who could I tell that wouldn’t laugh in my face and call me deluded?

lvii. I want him. I want him so bad. 

lviii. I thought about him with his clothes off last night. Underneath me. I can’t help but feel ashamed. I had to slip into the employee’s restroom to relieve myself of the unavoidable problem that resulted from such thoughts. The public bathrooms have too many stalls; anyone who happened to waltz in would know. That’s the last thing I want. I must hide.

lix. What would he think?

lx. I’ve given it much thought. If he knew about it, he’d be embarrassed. He’d be silent. His face would go as red as a tomato at springtime; he would die of shame. He would never speak to me again. This is all from a realistic standpoint.

lxi. I’ve stopped talking to him. Might as well stop this before it escalates any further, before I do something I might regret.

lxii. He approached me today. It was pleasant enough. He expressed that he hadn’t seen me in awhile, and we caught up. He shouldn’t have done that. He really shouldn’t have done that. Now I’m back at square one, pining over some washed-up 19th century loser.

lxiii. He doesn’t seem to hate me anymore. Maybe it was all in my head?

lxiv. Hope is a wonderful thing. It can lift your spirits no matter how far down they’ve gotten. It’s an infinite feeling; I’ve decided to start talking to him again.

lxv. We’re friends. I think. 

lxvi. His accent is so funny. It’s actually very pretty if you really listen.

lxvii. Dark eyes. Very dark eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever allowed myself to look him in the eyes in such a way, but now that we’re “friends,” I can. And it’s wonderful.

lxviii. He’s so short. I wouldn’t dare to say so since it’s his main insecurity, but you’re lying if you think it’s not funny. But not in a bad way. It’s cute. _He’s_ cute. Sometimes I forget why I like him and moments like these remind me. Sometimes it feels like there’s something wrong with my head, like there’s a senseless obsession brewing behind my nose and I’m none the wiser. I don’t care if it’s an obsession. If I know anything, I know that it’s not senseless, and I stand by that.

lxix. He laughed at my joke. It made me happy because at least he thinks I’m funny. I ran on that sweet energy for days, replaying the moment over and over and over and over. It makes me so happy.

lxx. He said I was handsome. He said I was handsome. He said I was handsome. He said I was handsome. He said I was handsome. He said I was handsome. He said I was handsome. He said I was handsome. He said I was handsome.

lxxi. I said he wasn’t too bad himself. I said that if I was a woman, I’d certainly have the hots for him. He smiled. At the time it seemed like the right thing to say, the right sort of “hint,” if that’s what it truly was, but now that I look back on it, I wish I hadn’t said such a thing. Flirting never used to be so difficult. 

lxxii. I thought about him again. On his knees this time. The little sucking noises, the suppressed moans, the back and forth movement of his head, my fingers running through his dark hair. I tucked myself into the janitor’s closet and locked the door. I thought about his lips, his mouth, his hands. I’ve grown quite imaginative ever since I met Napoleon. 

lxxiii. I don’t think I can take much more of this. 

lxxiv. I’m going to tell him. I don’t care about the shame, I don’t care about the ridicule, the consequences this might have, the weirdness between us if it goes awry. I want him to know. I want things to make sense for him. I deserve a chance. Give me a chance. Because there’s a chance that, after all these years, there was a reason. A purpose for this infatuation. I want him to love me the way I know that I could love him. He needs to see that. Even if he rejects me, he’ll know. I don’t want it to mess things up. I really don’t. I just… I think about him a lot, alright? Being alongside him. With him. I want him by my side, always. I think about it so much that it feels real. It’s all in my head, internalized, bleeding, waiting, wishing to get free. I need to tell someone; I need to tell him. 

lxxv. 

lxxvi.

lxxvii.

lxxviii.

lxxix.

lxxx.

lxxxi. 

lxxxii.

lxxxiii.

lxxxiv. I think I messed things up for good this time.

lxxxv.

lxxxvi.

lxxxvii.

lxxxviii.

lxxxix.

xc.

xci.

xcii.

xciii.

xciv.

xcvi.

xcvii.

xcviii. I hate myself.

xcix.

c.


End file.
